Amber Nine Read online

  There was plenty of room in the restaurant car. Boysie eschewed the food and ordered a large Courvoisier. Then another. After three he felt better. The magnificence of the mountains, the steady warmth in his stomach and the friendliness of the waiters all played a part in his recovery. By the time they reached Andermatt, on the edge of the St Gotthard, Boysie was starting to tell himself that skill had won the fight with the dwarf. On the other side of the St Gotthard the sun was shining and by this time Boysie—with the help of two more brandies—had convinced himself that all danger had passed.

  ‘Good old Griffin’ll be in Locarno tonight,’ thought Boysie. ‘Old Griffin’ll do the job’n we can all go home. Shuper!’

  The spring sun was quite warm when they changed trains in Bellinzona for the last short lap down to Locarno. The little, crowded ‘local’ pulled in dead on time. Boysie smiled, sniffed the air and allowed a dark happy man, wearing a claret cap inscribed Hotel Palmira, to take his case and lead him down to the Ford Station Wagon. There was already one passenger inside—the rust-haired girl from the aeroplane, still sitting wrapped in her thoughts.

  Boysie pulled himself together, the brandy was wearing thin in the bloodstream, anxiety nibbling through. But the natural man within sprang into action.

  ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Weren’t you on the plane from London this morning?’

  She looked at him without recognition. ‘Yes. Oh! Yes, you gave me a light.’

  Boysie extended a hand. The girl did not move for a moment. It was as though she was not quite sure what to do. Then, waking up to the situation she lifted her hand and brushed his palm with hers.

  ‘Oakes,’ said Boysie.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘My name. Oakes. Friends call me Boysie.’

  Again the feeling that she had not taken it in.

  ‘Oh yes. Whitching. My name’s Petronella Whitching.’

  The name meant nothing to Boysie, but, once more he felt certain that he should know something about the girl.

  The Palmira is one of those strange paradoxical continental hotels. Its rating is high and—with places like Auberge du Père Bis at Talloires, and La Côte-d’Or at Saulieu—is listed in the Passeport Gastronomique. It’s specialities include Rognons Flambés and Omelette Stephanie, and from the exterior it looks like any other lush modern luxurious caravanserai which you can see from Miami to Madrid. Its front rises in an impressive display of sweeping balconies, a dazzle of concrete, glass and high gloss. But once past the palms and fish ponds which decorate the entrance you are enmeshed by a decor of golden Second Empire—admittedly, mixed at times by interior decorators with their minds heavily bedded in the twentieth century. Walking up the wide steps to the elegant plate glass doors, Boysie glanced at the array of coloured shields announcing various organisations’ faith in the hotel. The Automobile Club Suisse was well to the fore, and Boysie smiled to see the blue metal tag which stated that the Palmira was a Bond’s Hotel. The foyer was a blaze of gilt and gee-gaw. A neat receptionist handed out the usual forms. The bellboys ogled Petronella, and a tall grinning concierge bowed decorously—his uniform lapels emblazoned with crossed keys. Boysie immediately christened him St Peter. The white and lime suit showed Petronella’s figure to an undoubted advantage. Boysie sidled up to her.

  ‘I wonder if you’d care to dine with me ...?’ he began.

  The same expression of unknowing. ‘I’m very tired.’ Shaking her head. ‘No, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Perhaps some other time?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Only the faintest smile as she was conducted from the desk.

  Boysie had to wait for the lift. He felt dirty and untidy. He was dirty and untidy, he knew it by the condescending way the bellboy kept looking at his shoes. In spite of the impeccable taste with which he had been indoctrinated by the Department, Boysie always managed to get intimidated by hotel officials. ‘Bang goes your tip, laddie,’ he thought staring back at the bellboy. The lift came down and the doors opened noiselessly. Out stepped Mr William Frances Penton, MP. Deferentially, Boysie moved to one side. Penton swept by without even a gesture of thanks. He was a podgy man. Obviously a ‘person’ by his assured manner. But not a man to love. The face was overtly conceited, and the patent-leather hair betrayed his proletarian background. Boysie caught himself thinking like Mostyn again. Anyway, it was a relief to know that he felt quite out of sympathy with the target.

  The room was a smaller version of the foyer, though the bathroom favoured contemporary epic. Boysie unpacked, bathed and rang down for Oeufs Aladdin, half-a-bottle of ‘57 Châteaux d’Y quem and coffee. He ate the poached eggs, on their saffron-flavourd risotto, sitting in the room’s one easy chair dressed only in his blue Y-fronts, covered with a towelling bath robe, washing down the light meal with two-thirds of the Bordeaux and three cups of coffee. His body ached from the experience of the afternoon. Getting up painfully he changed into his pyjamas and locked the bedroom door. At nine o’clock the white bedside telephone squawked.

  ‘Goldblat.’

  ‘Who?’ said Boysie. Perplexed.

  ‘Goldblat.’ There was a short stretch of silence. ‘That wad de nabe you told be to use, wadn’t it?’ said Griffin. The head-cold sounded dreadful.

  ‘Oh Lord. Yes. Forgot. Sorry.’

  ‘Well id wad you what told be to use a false nabe,’ said Griffin sublimely unsafe.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well I just god id. I’b at de Muralo just ub de road frob you.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Boysie. This was a new Griffin. The Muralo looked almost as plush as the Palmira. Griffin used to like sleazy little hideaways.

  ‘Glad you arrived safely,’ said Boysie, frigid. ‘I rather want to get our business finished as soon as we can manage it.’

  ‘Well id’ll hab to waid ‘dil tomorrow. I’b bloody tired and de cold’s gone to be chest,’ wheezed Griffin. ‘You come ub and see me in de mornid, Mr Oakes, will yer?’

  ‘Yes.’ Unnerved at Griffin’s show of spirit. He was usually quite a servile fellow.

  ‘Dat’s kind ob yer. Meself I wouldn’t mind lettin’ id ‘ang od a bit. Fancy this place I do.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning.’ Boysie trying to re-capture the initiative. ‘Wait for me at your hotel. All right?’

  ‘That’s wad I said I’d do.’

  ‘OK then. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Oakes. You comfortable at your place?’

  ‘Very, thank you. Goodnight.’ He firmly replaced the receiver. It would be just his luck, he thought, if Griffin started playing up on this one. When they had first come to the arrangement he just got on with it. No fuss. Now, fancy ideas, smart hotels.

  ‘Touch of the bleedin’ prima donnas,’ said Boysie aloud.

  He walked over to the balcony windows, opened them and stepped out into the fresh night air, standing there for a time, smoking and leaning against the rail. Below, the street was bright from the hotel’s illuminations, the pavement across the road glistening in the light from tall standards dotted along the lake front. He could see clear round the bay upon which. Locarno is built. Across the dark waters of the lake, the mountains took irregular black bites out of a shell-coloured sky. Boysie stiffened. Directly in front of the hotel a large willow mushroomed its tendrils in a wide umbrella which trailed to the pavement, on one side, and the lake on the other. Through a gap in the filigree of branches, Boysie saw two people leaning against the low stone wall which separated the pavement from the lake shore. They were standing close in a confidential huddle. The man was Penton. Now the light caught the girl’s hair. She turned and looked back towards the hotel, still talking. The girl with Penton was Petronella Whitching.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BLACK LEATHER: LOCARNO

  IN spite of the mental and physical exhaustion, Boysie’s body refused to give itself to sleep. Around two in the morning he got up and smoked a cigarette. This only produced heart palpitations, making matters worse, because he soon became
convinced the wretched blood pump was operating up-tempo. Just as consciousness was on the verge of suppression, he sat up with a start—certain the heart had stopped altogether.

  Eventually, Boysie got out of bed again and sorted through the stock of medical aids he carried, mixed with the toilet gear, in the green Onyx Travel Kit. Discarding Oblion, Dramamine, Aspirin and Alka Seltzer, he settled for a couple of Weldorm tablets which took him off into a heavy if unnatural, slumber. As the comforting ink of unconsciousness seeped into him, Boysie vowed he would make a determined effort, once back in London, to do something about his physical fitness. If he ever got back to London. Being a country boy, Boysie always took pride in bodily prowess. Not through motives of toughness, but simply because of a built-in desire to feel that he was functioning properly—no matter what bizarre neuroses plagued his mind. The winter with Mostyn had made him flabby.

  The Weldorm carried him through until 8.30. He ordered coffee and rolls, shaved and dressed—it was warm enough for his lightweight bought in San Diego. At least the desk job had added nothing to his waist-line. He struck up a couple of postures before the mirror. The colour suited him. Mostyn had called it ‘rich sputum green’. Boysie clipped the Al into its holster and went out to the balcony. The day was bright. Not with the brilliant early sun of summer—which, even at dawn picks up the dregs of the previous day’s heat—but a clear wash bringing out the detail, as sharp as a Tessar lens. From the third-floor vantage point, this end of the lake appeared to be entirely surrounded by mountains, making it a lost basin, painted and decorated with brilliant strokes of grey-green, blue and flashing white. Along the shore, colour was heightened by tufty palm-tops, bursts of blossom and splashes of camellia and mimosa. No wonder, thought Boysie, that the Locarno issue of Journal des Voyages, provided by a thoughtful management, called it ‘Shangri-La’. A romantic name. A romantic landscape. The beside telephone made its obscene noise.

  ‘Hallo.’

  ‘Good mornink, Mr Oakes.’ It was the cheerful voice of the lanky concierge whom Boysie had christened St Peter.’

  ‘I hope you have slept well.’

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘There is a gentleman down here to see you.’

  Blast Griffin, thought Boysie. Why the hell hadn’t he stayed at his hotel as arranged?

  ‘Ask him to wait. I’ll be down in a minute.’ He was not going to have Griffin snooping around his room. Chap might get even grander ideas. Want more loot.

  The entrance hall at the Palmira combines foyer and general public lounge. When Boysie stepped out of the lift there were only half-a-dozen people around—drinking coffee at the ornate Louis XV tables, checking up on the stock market prices, or shielding themselves with the morning papers. Griffin was nowhere to be seen. St Peter smiled broadly behind his desk with the carefully arranged postcards and tourist information, backed by keys and pigeon-holes.

  ‘The gentleman is over there.’ He indicated a lone little man sitting by the broad, oblong window looking out on to the street and lake shore. He had the face of a small animal. A rodent of some kind. The movements matched. The voice quick and sharp. He rose as Boysie approached.

  ‘Mr Oakes?’ A hand almost quivering in welcome.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gatti. Department of Justice. I have to give you ...’ He paused, mentally running an invisible finger down his spotless English vocabulary. ‘The effects.’

  ‘The effects?’ Boysie was on a different wavelength.

  ‘Fraulein Schport. Your people want her effects. I have them for you. That is why you came here is it not?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Boysie readjusted and sat down across the table. On the chair to his left Gatti had placed a neat, square cardboard box. He picked it up with care holding it towards Boysie—a reverence which suggested it contained his favourite aunt’s ashes.

  ‘The clothes are in here. Our forensic laboratory has been over them. Your experts will no doubt also want to take tests.’

  Boysie took the box, holding it awkwardly, uncertain what to do. At last he placed it on the table.

  ‘I have a form for you to sign. It is important to show that you have received everything. Had you not better look?’

  Boysie nodded and began to fumble with the box lid. ‘Didn’t really expect you to make contact as quickly as this.’ His hand came out of the box. ‘Only arrived last night.’ He looked to see what he had drawn out—there was a fleeting thought that it was rather like a lucky dip. The grin slipped from his face. He was sitting in the respectable lounge of the best hotel in town holding high above the table a brassiere and a pair of unmistakably feminine briefs—flimsy in violent black and flame check. An elderly lady viewed him with distaste through a lorgnette. He glanced towards St Peter’s desk. The concierge looked at him with surprise. Boysie hastily stuffed the garments back into the box, fastened down the lid and replaced it on the chair. He smiled. His sheepish smile. Gatti looked solemn.

  ‘I think it’s all in order. I trust you,’ said Boysie.

  ‘You must be certain. It is a good thing that I am an honest man. Only the clothes are in the box.’ His hand darted into a pocket and reappeared with a small object wrapped in tissue paper. With the same extreme tenderness he had shown towards the box, the Swiss placed the packet in the centre of the table and carefully unfolded the tissue. The silver chain was about five inches long, the medallion a shade smaller than a penny. It was easily recognisable from the description—a winged horse with the head and neck of an eagle. Not a great work of art, but certainly not mass produced. The lake water did not seem to have done any harm, though there was normal black discoloration round the edges of the engraving.

  ‘Unusual,’ said Boysie.

  Gatti nodded. ‘It is not unpleasant.’ He raised his head looking quickly to Boysie’s left. Boysie heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. He turned. Petronella Whitching—beautifully on display in white stretch pants and shirt—stood about four paces away. Her large eyes no longer showed the cloudy lethargy Boysie had noticed the day before. Now, she glared down at the silver trinket lying between the two men.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Boysie happily. Three seconds’ silence. She turned the full stare of her eyes on to Boysie. The look was of arrogance blended with unconditional hatred. Puzzled, Boysie still tried to maintain his smile. With a slight hiss of disgust, the girl turned away and walked swiftly towards the main doors.

  Boysie watched her go, still poised, long legs sheathed in white moving with beautiful elegance, back straight and head tilted.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Gatti. Boysie did not hear. He was shuffling through the facts given to him by Mostyn—hastily filed somewhere in the cerebral cortex. Still no answer clicked into position. Boysie was disturbed, his palms dampening. Gatti repeated the question.

  ‘Oh, a girl I met coming over yesterday. No one in particular.’

  ‘She seemed worried.’

  ‘Yes.’ The mental probes clutching out in a dozen different directions. ‘I think I upset her last night. Away from home. You know how it is.’ He spread his hands and hunched his shoulders in the popular conception of a money-lender explaining to a client that times aren’t what they were.

  ‘I have been told.’ Gatti was stiff. ‘Personally I am a happily married man with six children and a house of my own. Will you sign the paper?’

  Crushed, Boysie took the official form and scratched out his autograph. Gatti stood up. ‘I hope you have a pleasant journey home.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m staying on here for a day or so. There is no urgency about these.’

  ‘No? Well, goodbye, Mr Oakes.’ Distaste in his manner. Boysie went with him to the door, then walked back to St Peter’s desk—over what seemed to be a mile of choice Persian.

  ‘I’m going to my room. Can you get me the Muralo on the telephone.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Anything.’

  Boysie gave him that secret look which says, ‘You look after me, brother, and your
palm will be well oiled—a full lubrication with the folding green’. St Peter nodded his understanding and Boysie made for the lift.

  ‘Oh, sir.’ The concierge bustled out from behind his barricade, eager to be of assistance. ‘Your friend. He left his parcels.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Oh the chair, the packages.’ St Peter was off across the lounge. He came back grinning and looked as pleased as a retriever depositing a brace of pheasant at his master’s feet, the cardboard box and tissue packet held out to Boysie.

  ‘Oh, thank you. Mine actually.’ He took the objects and thought he detected a knowing, amused look in St Peter’s eyes. Boysie dumped the carboard box in the wardrobe, left the bracelet in his pocket and sat on the bed waiting for his call. St Peter got through quickly.

  ‘Could I speak to Mr Goldblat.’